I Can Lie to Myself
by Wine Colored Novocain
Summary: A song fic to Shania Twain's 'It Only Hurts When I'm Breathing'. About the time after the Revolutionary War. A Hetalia Kink!Meme prompt.


Title: **I Can Lie to Myself**

Word Count: **1,292**

Pairing(s): **USUK**

Warnings: **Shounen Ai, Angst**

Summary: **A song fic to Shania Twain's 'It Only Hurts When I'm Breathing'. About the time after the Revolutionary War. A Hetalia Kink!Meme prompt.**

Prompt: **The song 'It Only Hurts When I'm Breathing' by Shania Twain describes England after the Revolutionary War perfectly. Anon would like to see some angst about the Revolutionary War, America, about losing the one he loved etc.  
Bonus: Happy ending with America trying to help England understand that he isn't going to leave him this time.**

Disclaimer: **I don't own Axis Powers Hetalia, America or England. I also do not own the song 'It Only Hurts When I'm Breathing' by Shania Twain.**

Once fiery emerald eyes, now dulled to an emotionless green, stared at the ceiling. The pale cream, flat surface held no interesting features, nothing to have such an intense gaze placed upon it. Yet, there it was, the fascinated and distant stare was focused on the ceiling. However, the owner of the soulless orbs was looking past the ceiling and to back when his young colony was just that; his colony.

He remembered when the boy would smile so brightly with a twinkle in his beautiful, sky blue oculars as he arrived for another visit. How the boy would always be bigger than the last time he had seen him. How he would chuckle merrily while the blond child practically bounced with joy when he came.

His thoughts wound a small, sad smile across his lips, one not reaching his eyes.

The man wondered if his former colony was faring well. They hadn't talked since _then_. He almost winced as he remembered the last battle. Pushing aside the memory he went back to his pondering.

As he lay unmoving on his soft bed he hoped the boy – _Man, now, I suppose_ – was doing well, that he was getting on in the world. Despite what he had said that day in the rain, he truly wished for the best for the blond nation.

He again almost flinched as he thought about his words and actions. Deciding to ignore that, he pressed onward. If he disregarded all the depression and tentative side-stepping of thoughts revolving around the revolution, one could say he was doing fine, well in fact. Moving on rapidly and leaving it all behind him. That being an option, he chose it without a second thought.

A fair, recently frail, hand ran through his dirty blond hair. He sighed, and continued. He certainly wasn't shocked that he continued to thrive and survive after the separation. The nation had gotten past the worst of the traumas and was progressing quickly. He had reached the peek of the hill and it was all a down-hill stroll from there. He was free to live again, to worry only about the fate of his country and not be burdened with a rebellious colony.

Shuddering, ragged breaths passed through his slightly parted lips, pausing every now and again as he held his breath to prevent the ache in his chest. It was easy for him to say that it only hurt him when he was breathing, his chest becoming heavy and compressed. His breath stuttered every once in awhile, if he took to long to collect and hold the air flow, but he was quite used to that and it no longer worried him.

The aching in his poor, abused chest hurt worse with every pulse of his heart. With every beat it reminded him that he was indeed alive, and that only seemed to make breathing harder. It felt like his heart was being ripped farther apart with every pound against his chest. Often he was afraid that it was just going to fall apart one day, or that someone would come and completely rid him of it. Thinking about it, he briefly asked himself if that would make it hurt less; no aching chest, no more pulsing sore, just an empty cavity.

He curled on his side, wrapping his arms around his legs held close against his aching torso. Most nights he could lie to himself, saying he never cried or thought about the past. That is until he cried himself into a dreamless, exhausted slumber. Those nights he loved the most because though he didn't sleep peacefully and found no real rest in them, he never dreamed meaning that his lightly wound hope wouldn't unravel come morning. Those fragile glass dreams would break with the dawn.

This was another of those nights, tears streaming down his cheeks. The salty drops of water caressed his face as he wished his little colony would. The air he didn't want to inhale refused to enter his lungs. Even though he craved the refuge from the throbbing pain he could not hold the urge to gulp down the necessary oxygen at bay as it grew more furious. Exhaling, a whimper passed through those slightly parted lips and his nose crinkled in agony.

It would go on for hours like this until he finally was claimed by the restless but needed sleep. In the next few, hopefully, hours of sleep he would subconsciously prepare himself with the onslaught of the coming day.

**Present Day**

Arthur awoke wrapped in the arms of his lover, Alfred. They slept on the American's bed, star-spangled banner sheets and plush pillows. Startled at waking to this particular sight and feeling he desperately tried to remember what had happened, having been immersed in a dream about his time engulfed in sorrow after the Revolutionary War. After realizing he was back in the present, or rather not dreaming, tears began to accumulate in his eyes and slowly trickle down his face. He snuggled into the encompassing body holding him and buried his face in the younger nation's chest.

Alfred blinked his eyes open, vision blurred from sleep and the lack of Texas. He couldn't say he wasn't surprised at the feeling of a wetness growing on his shirt. The American hadn't known Arthur to cry often. Being concerned for his love's well-being he gently took hold of the Briton's chin and brought his face upwards.

"Arthur, what's wrong?" he asked, voice deep from the lack of recent use.

"Nothing," Arthur tugged his head free of the soft grasp, refusing to answer any questions. Still being quite worried for his elder partner, Alfred pressed a soft kiss to Arthur's tear stained cheek.

"Please, I would like to help in anyway. Please tell me." This only seemed to make the tears flow faster.

"You wouldn't understand, git," he said in attempt to brush it off. With a determined look firmly placed in Alfred's eyes, he seized Arthur's chin in one hand and cupped his damp cheek in his other.

"Then help me understand. I want to help you stop hurting." His words came out so seriously that England's breath caught in a gasp for a fleeting moment. The older nation turned his eyes downward, feeling childish but still worried.

"After the revolution, I was broken. My actions were automatic at work and almost non-existent in my home. I can't lose you again. If I do, I'll-" _Die_, he was about to say but his voice caught. He couldn't say that, he was too vulnerable still. It was awful having America know his doubts and fears like that; it was unimaginable what it would be like for Alfred to know that he was still raw from that blow, that when he was in his own home by himself he would sometimes still cry himself to sleep.

Yet, Alfred knew what he was going to say. He himself had thought and felt the same long ago, but the American had healed and he could see his lover had not.

A quiet sob was choked in shock as the hands slipped from his face to the back of his head and torso. The arms now firmly wrapped around him tightened until he could barely breathe.

"Arthur, I wouldn't let you go if it cost me my life. I will hold onto you for eternity, I won't leave you this time. I can't. I love you far too much for that," he whispered, but it came out with as much force as it would have if he screamed as loud as he was able to. The Briton's lips curved slightly, hinting at the joy he was feeling now.

"I love you, too."

**A/N: **I would like to know your opinion. Constructive criticism is always appreciated, as well as compliments (if you think it deserves such, I don't), but flames will be used to commit arson. **BURN THOSE BUILDINGS! BURN THEM GOOD!**

Also, I am currently in the process of writing a companion two-shot. So, if you enjoyed this (which you probably didn't) look forward to the companion fic I will produce in a short while.


End file.
